


Hear Her Roar

by theSapphireSky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Molly, F/M, Possessive Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Is Bad At Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2368571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSapphireSky/pseuds/theSapphireSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is leaving London for an extended holiday. Unhappy that his pathologist is leaving him high-and-dry, Sherlock tries to bring her back by any means necessary. Unfortunately for him, Molly seems to have developed the ability to tell him 'no'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'll Fly Away

'Now boarding Flight 734 to Madrid, now boarding Flight 734 to Madrid,' the disembodied female voice broke through the fog in Molly Hooper's mind. Gathering her bag and jacket, she joined the queue, ticket in hand. A part of her was excited for the trip, a last-minute invitation to speak at a pathology conference and an absolute honor for her. But the rest of her, the part that wanted to turn it down, was regretful for leaving for an extended holiday without informing anyone aside from her supervisor. He had been pressuring her to use her significant vacation time before she lost her mind from work. Now seemed as good a time as any.

Especially after the incident on Monday. Sherlock Holmes, the love of her life and bane of her existence, had strode into the lab like the bloody King of England and demanded she immediately stop what she was doing and get him a cup of coffee. And for God's sake, wipe off that lipstick, it looks like a child drew on her face.

Unfortunately for him, Molly was at the end of her rope. Between the end of her engagement, Sherlock's drug use and subsequent false-engagement and near death (he  _was_  dead for a time, but it did Molly no good to dwell on that), then the appearance of a fake Moriarty across the country, Molly could no longer hold back. She only counted when he needed a favor and the thought made something inside her snap, the mouse retreating as the lioness inside her roared.

If the slaps she delivered after his drug testing were surprising, the near pummeling he endured Monday shocked him to his core. Nursing a bloody nose and what promised to be a brilliant shiner, he gaped at her in utter astonishment before hastening to obey her bellowed demand to get his high-handed, arrogant arse from her lab before she aimed lower.

Molly internally groaned at the memory, reddening in pride and shame. She regretted losing her temper and attacking him, but a part of her was proud for standing up to him, in some manner.

Finally making it to her seat, she pulled out a book before shoving the bag into the overhead compartment. No one else was in the two-seat section yet, and Molly secretly hoped they wouldn't show. Settling in to the window seat and fastening the seatbelt, she cracked the book open, looking forward to a quiet 2-hour flight to lose herself in a fictional world. People moved about her as she read, the door eventually closed and sealed tight.

Just as she heard the ding for the captain's announcement, the seat beside her was taken by a latecomer. She ignored whoever it was, burying her nose further in her book, effectively blocking out the flight safety instructions she knew by heart.

With a lurch, the plane began to pull away from the gate.

As she flicked her eyes to the window and back, her peripheral caught a familiar looking figure. Her heart skipped a beat. Horrified, she slowly turned her head and locked wide eyes with the man beside her, one very perturbed Consulting Detective.


	2. In-Flight Entertainment

Molly gaped in abject horror at the man beside her. Sherlock’s black eye was turning a mottled purple and blue, making his already angular face that much more intimidating. Had she not been in shock, she might have been horrified and regretful knowing that she was the one who caused it.

It wasn’t until the plane had successfully taken off and was airborne for several minutes that her shock wore off and anger was able to seep in.

Taking her book in hand, she slapped it against his shoulder, ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here, Sherlock Holmes?’

He quirked an eyebrow, still managing to scowl in the process, as he glanced down at the offending book. ‘Your impromptu holiday will be most inconvenient. If I had known you were intending to leave, I would have spoken with you about this before you got on the plane. As it is, I had to call in a favor to Mycroft to get a seat.’

Utterly confused, Molly smacked him again, earning her several raised brows from the couple across the aisle. ‘So, instead of calling, you decided to kick someone off the plane?’

‘I did nothing. _Mycroft_ discovered that the man currently occupying this particular seat would be better off flying home tomorrow, leaving him an unexpected evening to spend with his mistress. A last ‘meal,’ as it were, as his wife has filed for divorce while he was away and his mistress is planning to elope with her ex-husband’s brother.’

Molly wrinkled her nose in disgust. _Does anybody know how to fall in love and_ stay _in love anymore?_

Sherlock turned his head forward, sitting up straight. ‘Now that I have saved you from a two-hour flight next to a womanizing philanderer, it would be most convenient if you were to return to London immediately.’

Molly rolled her eyes and slapped his knee with the book, bringing his annoyed gaze back to her, ‘I’ll only be gone for a month, Sherlock. You are a grown man, I’m sure you will cope just fine.’

He growled and snatched her weapon away, holding it out of her reach, ‘A month is far too long. My work will suffer, murderers will slip through the cracks because of those morons you call your colleagues.’

‘Well, if you tried being polite, instead of deducing them, they might be more willing to assist you,’ Molly accused, reaching her arm across him to retrieve her book.

‘Pointless, they would still be simpering idiots,’ he waved off her chastisement with a frown, holding her book high above his head. ‘You are the only competent pathologist at Bart’s. It would be most convenient if you were to return to the lab, where you belong, in case I need you.’

Something in her already horrified expression must have tipped him off that he said something ‘not good’. He immediately dropped his scowl and tried to backtrack, as Molly began sputtering in rage.

‘Where I belong?’ She hissed, unmindful of the numerous eavesdroppers surrounding them, her hands clenching the armrests with white-knuckled rage. ‘I am not a tool in your belt, Mister Holmes. If you weren’t such an overbearing _cad,_ perhaps I wouldn’t be the only pathologist willing to work with your arrogant ar-!’

‘Is there a problem?’ The patronizingly sweet voice of the flight attendant broke the tense air. Sherlock lowered his hand and ignored her question, as Molly took deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

Smiling tightly at the attendant, Molly asked politely, ‘Yes, actually. Is there possibly another seat I could move to?’

‘I’m sorry,’ the attendant, Cynthia, according to her name tag, shook her head, ‘we’re completely filled up.’

Molly groaned, ‘Any headphones or earplugs?’ She shot a frosty glare at Sherlock, ‘Duct tape?’ Sherlock’s eyes widened.

Cynthia flicked her gaze to Sherlock and said hesitantly, ‘We do have earplugs. Two pairs?’

Molly nodded. If Sherlock didn’t want his, she’d use them and have double the protection from his arrogance. As Cynthia moved up the aisle to find earplugs, Molly turned her gaze back to Sherlock and poked him none-too-gently for emphasis, ‘When we get to Madrid, you will call your brother, get a flight back to London, and leave me in peace for thirty days or so help me, Sherlock Holmes, you will never put one _toe_ in the morgue as long as I live, do you hear me?’ While he was distracted by her prodding and demands, Molly reached across him and snatched her book from his loosened grip.

Before Sherlock could react or reply, Cynthia returned with the earplugs. Happily, Molly took them and shoved them in her ears, settling back into her book. Beside her Sherlock fiddled with the plugs before tossing them aside and retreating into his Mind Palace.

Still angry, Molly found it hard to focus on the words. Her mind was screaming at her to knock the tosser off the plane for ruining her holiday, not to mention her love life. Her heart, however, was beating a rapid rhythm at being chased after by him, no matter the reason.


	3. Denial

As the plane taxied into the Madrid airport that evening, Sherlock glanced over at the still-angry Molly beside him. He had spent the remaining 90 minutes of the flight trying to figure out what he had said wrong and how to fix it. When he finally realized that he had inadvertently insulted her by telling her she belonged in the lab at his disposal, he grimaced. Stupid, he really should have known better. She already believed she didn’t count to him, despite his assurance the night before his Fall that she did. And he had to go and bungle it. Again.

If there was ever a time he needed John Watson’s advice, now was it. He smirked. _Somewhere in London, John is suddenly and inexplicably filled with unspeakable joy._

They didn’t speak as they stood with the rest of the passengers and gathered their belongings and made their way from the crowded plane. Immediately, Molly marched toward the luggage area, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. He knew she expected him to phone Mycroft again and get another flight out. Unfortunately for her, he had reached his Mycroft-quota for the year and would rather suffer the wrath of Molly than owe his older brother another favor.

So, with determination, he followed after her. As the luggage began to stream around the carousel, he noticed the bright pink suitcase with white flowers dotting its surface. _Obviously Molly’s._ As she reached out to grab it, Sherlock stepped up beside her and grabbed it from the belt. She jumped back in surprise, turning a disbelieving stare up at him that quickly turned to anger.

‘I thought I told you to leave,’ she forcefully took her case back.

Sherlock reached over and pried it from her grasp, ‘I never agreed to that.’

She stomped her foot in frustration, ‘Sherlock, go home! God, why can’t you do as you’re told?’ She wrenched the case back and pushed past him. She hadn’t gone more than ten steps before her suitcase was once more taken from her. She stopped with a groan, covering her upturned face with her hands as she mumbled indistinctly.

‘What was that?’ Sherlock bent down slightly trying to make out her words.

She pulled her hands away, her eyes closed tightly, ‘I’m apologizing for whatever heinous sin I committed that I am being punished for. I can think of no other reason you would follow me to Spain to insult me and make Hell out of my holiday.’

Sherlock didn't know what to say. Instead, he watched in silence as she eventually sighed in resignation. Defeated, she let him carry her suitcase and they made their way outside. As she hailed a cab, he observed her. He saw the tired eyes, the pinched lips, the angry flush rising from her neck. And his heart stuttered, knowing he had upset her.

If Molly had looked at him then, she would have seen the tender, regretful expression on his face. But she didn’t. And by the time they had climbed into a cab and were on their way to the hotel, his face was clear of emotion.

_This is not going as planned._

* * *

 

**Earlier That Day**

The midday Sun broke through the London clouds, shining brightly before becoming lost once again behind the thick gray cover. A gentle breeze crested through the city, bringing the promise of rain and fog for the night. The bustling crowd thickened as the lunch hour ticked nearer. Men and women fled into the street, hailing cab after cab, heading to out to dine. And down on Baker Street, in an unusually quiet flat, a kind, aging landlady was setting a tray of biscuits and sandwiches, humming as she worked. Yes, Martha Hudson did enjoy the quiet, for with tenants such as hers, silence was a rare treat.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

She shrieked as multiple gunshots pierced the air, dropping a plate of cheese to the ground. With her hand over her heart, she leaned against the counter to calm herself. _Sherlock Holmes!_ Growing angry, she stepped over the shattered plate and marched herself upstairs, ignoring the jolt of pain in her hip with every step.

‘Sherlock!’ She threw open the door and bustled over to the lethargic detective, wrenching the pistol from his grasp. He merely pouted as his head lolled back.

With practiced ease, she unloaded the remaining bullet and placed the gun on the desk. As she turned around, she caught sight of the wall between the door and the kitchen. Furious, she grabbed the nearest pillow and proceeded to smack the Consulting Detective across the face.

Sputtering, Sherlock jumped up and grabbed it from her. ‘Must everyone abuse me so?’

‘That,’ Mrs. Hudson pointed at the bullet-ridden wall, ‘will be coming out of your rent, young man.’

Sherlock merely waved a hand dismissively and walked over to the couch, flopping down petulantly, his dressing gown wrapped around him and his back to her.

‘Oh, dear,’ Mrs. Hudson murmured. Something was bothering Sherlock. She made her way into the kitchen and set about making tea.

Once she had placed two steaming cuppas on the coffee table, she pulled the desk chair over. Sherlock’s ears had perked up at the sound of tinkling china and he looked over his shoulder as she sat down. Heaving a mighty sigh, he sat up. Mrs. Hudson gasped as she finally saw his entire face. His right eye was black and blue, his nose an angry red, not broken, but clearly still painful.

‘Oh, Sherlock!’ She started to stand up and fuss over him, but Sherlock raised a hand to stop her.

‘It is fine, Mrs. Hudson. I’ve certainly had worse,’ he smiled cheekily.

She frowned, ‘Being shot is not something to kid about, Sherlock.' She leaned closer, 'That looks absolutely dreadful.’

‘Unnecessary violence brought on by a ridiculous female,’ he mumbled to himself, wincing as he prodded the tender flesh.

‘Was it a case?’ She knew Sherlock had a tendency to be less-than-kind to suspects and victims alike, someone was bound to attack him eventually.

‘No.’

‘John?’ Mrs. Hudson ventured. She could not count the number of times she personally had seen the good doctor rein in his temper around his friend, it was only a matter of time before he cracked.

‘What? No, no, no,’ Sherlock scowled, ‘John is allowed to punch only when I ask him to. The sole exception was my sudden return from the dead, and, in my opinion, he went a bit overboard on the abuse that evening.’

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue in disapproval, ‘You deserved worse from him after pretending to be dead for two years. Now, who did this to you?’

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and his eyes looked everywhere but at her as he admitted quietly, ‘Molly Hooper.’

In disbelief, Mrs. Hudson gasped. ‘That sweet dear? I just can’t believe it, she adores you.’

‘ _Adored,_ ’ he corrected her, waving a hand towards his injuries. ‘I am no longer the object of her affections, as you can tell by the evidence of her hatred.’

She smiled inwardly at his child-like innocence of women. ‘Oh, Sherlock,’ shook her head fondly. ‘What did you do to her?’

‘Me? I did nothing!’ he gestured madly, ‘I simple entered the lab, asked for her assistance, and the next thing I know she has punched me twice in the face and is shouting at me to leave the lab before she takes aim at… other extremities.’ He flopped back against the couch, crossing his arms.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head at the petulant Consulting Detective. ‘I’m sure there is more to it than that.’

‘Well, the minds of goldfish are not my concern. I shall simply wait for her to return to her former, reasonable self. There, problem solved,’ a fake grin on his face, he rose and swept into the kitchen, pulling out his microscope and samples.

Mrs. Hudson followed, wrinkling her nose at the sight of his experiments. She recognized his actions as his way of shutting down the conversation. Retreating to the door, she couldn’t resist leaving one bit of motherly advice.

‘You know, Sherlock, a woman like Molly is not always forgiving. You may find her even more upset if you don’t try to fix whatever you did wrong.’ With that she turned around and left the flat.

She shook her head as Sherlock’s indignant bellow followed her down the stairs, ‘But I didn’t do anything wrong!’

An hour later, when she heard Sherlock march out the door, she smiled proudly, believing he was going to see that lovely Molly to apologize.

Thirty minutes later a frazzled Sherlock stomped up the stairs, throwing things about and causing a racket above her. After five minutes, just she reached the end of her patience and was heading upstairs to scold him, he came stumbling back down, phone in one hand, a briefcase in the other.

‘I don’t care what it costs me, get me on it!’ He shouted into the speaker. He nearly knocked Mrs. Hudson over as he rushed to the door. ‘Yes, I have your briefcase... Yes, I stole it.... You’ll get it back, Mycroft, when I am on that plane!’

‘Sherlock!’ She exclaimed in surprise.

He turned around, his eyes wild and his hair ruffled. ‘I’m a bit busy, Mrs. Hudson. Apparently, my pathologist has decided to flee the country.’

As he threw open the door and ran outside, she heard him yell into the phone just before the door slammed, ‘Fine, I will take them to Les Miserablés. Now get me on that damn plane!’

Mrs. Hudson stared wide-eyed after the man, her hand over her pounding heart. Eventually, she returned to her flat, smiling fondly at the antics of her eccentric tenant. Some days she missed the quiet, the kind that she never feared would be broken by gunshots and experiments gone wrong. But most days, she loved having the excitement, the adventure that found its way into 221 Baker Street.

_She must be very important if he had to call Mycroft for help. Well, I’ll be sure to have some biscuits ready for him when he returns. He eats so poorly on his own._

With that, she set about baking Sherlock's favourite biscuits.

 

Little did she know she would not see him for three weeks.


	4. Beach Day

‘That’s a terribly short dress.’

Molly quirked an eyebrow and ignored the man standing in the doorway. He stepped further into the room and crossed his arms over his chest as Molly, hunched over the bed, continued to rifle through her large beach tote.

‘Someone might proposition you. Are you willing to follow through on the offer you’re advertising?’

She threw the bag down and turned around to face the pain in her arse, hands on her hips.

‘First of all, it’s a cover-up. My swimsuit underneath is significantly ‘shorter’. Secondly, I’m going to the beach. Everyone there is nearly naked, I will probably be the most modest.  And lastly, I don’t give a flying fig if someone were to proposition me. I might even accept, if it gets me out of sharing this bloody room with you for a night!’

Sherlock glared at her, a twitch of something flashing across his face, and clenched his jaw.

When they arrived at the hotel, Molly had demanded Sherlock get his own room. Unfortunately, Fate decided to have a laugh at her expense and the hotel was completely booked. Leaving Molly to cave to Sherlock’s machinations once again (someday she’d be immune to that bloody puppy dog look, right?) and let him share her suite. The first three nights he slept on the couch in the small lounge, while Molly rested and prepared for her presentation at the pathology conference. But once her holiday officially began, he found his way into her bed.

Three years ago, she would have died of happiness to have Sherlock willingly share her bed. But now, she was one more night away from shoving him out the 14th story window. Despite her most romantic fantasies, Sherlock was neither a cuddler nor a spooner. He was a spread-eagled, snoring cover hog. The first night he had snuck in after she fell asleep and slipped under the covers. She discovered his presence in a most unfortunate way, by rolling over in the night and being summarily pushed out of his way and off the bed.

Her bottom still hurt from that rude awakening.

If his eye wasn’t still a mottled black and blue, she’d have punched him again.

As if that wasn’t enough, he insisted on joining her wherever she went, complaining and whinging that they weren’t in London.

_‘It’s too bright, London’s cloud cover is much more appealing.’_

_‘There are too many Spaniards here.’_

_‘The coffee here is abominable, does no one know how to make a decent cuppa?’_

_‘What in God’s name is this, fried potato mash? Do they want to have their capillaries explode?’_

And considering he was currently holding swimming trunks from the hotel gift shop, he was apparently intending to accompany her to her first day at the beach.

‘No, no, absolutely not,’ Molly snapped. ‘This is my day to relax. And there will be no talking, no complaining, and no _murders._ Thus, no Sherlock.’

He pursed his lips in a frown. Molly stood her ground, trying to appear fiercer than her diminutive stature allowed. Finally, he turned and left the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Molly sighed in relief, feeling a twinge of remorse for her words, but sod it all, she needed a day to herself.

She finally dug out her sunscreen bottle and proceeded to sufficiently cover her exposed skin. Realizing she needed to take off her cover-up, she lifted it over her head. Normally very modest (that one Christmas did not count, she was too desperate to get Sherlock’s attention to be considered in her right mind), her swimsuit was quite the opposite of the rest of her wardrobe. A simple royal blue bikini, it covered everything it promised to and made her feel confident and womanly. Capping the sunscreen, she pulled her hair out of its plait and pushed it into a messy bun atop her head.

With a happy sigh, she shrugged her sunny yellow cover-up back on and grabbed her bulging tote bag, complete with magazines, the novel she’d been intending to read for more than a year and enough snacks and drinks to keep her happily sated for the rest of the day.

Leaving the bedroom, she said good-bye to a pouting Consulting Detective who had ensconced himself in the stiff hotel chair and seemed to be in his Mind Palace. With that, she left for the beach and a day free from Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

From his thinking pose, Sherlock cracked an eye open as the door shut behind Molly. In a flash he jumped up and began taking off his clothes. He pulled on the red swimming trunks and a hideously cheap white t-shirt he had bought at the same time. He sneered at the quality of the clothing, but his tailored suits were too expensive to waste on sand and sun. And despite his propensity for wearing layers in the summer, if he was going to spend the entire day at the beach, he’d prefer to be cool in cheap clothing than hot in his trademark suit.

He reached under the chair and pulled out the bag containing his recently purchased towel and pair of sunglasses. Smirking to himself, he sauntered out the door and down to the beach. A few minutes behind Molly, it took him a bit to find her on the slightly crowded beach. His eyes searched for her bright yellow cover-up, catching her setting out her towel in a less busy area. He set to join her, the hot sand scorching his bare feet.

Molly still hadn’t noticed his approach, and was just about to untie the strings of her cover-up when she raised her eyes and looked directly at him.

Her eyes widened in horror. As he drew closer, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips, her horror turned into blatant anger and her eyes narrowed. But before he reached her, a fit young man in blue swimming trunks stepped into her line of sight, effectively blocking her from Sherlock’s view. His jaw popped as he gritted his teeth. Those few that were nearby swore they heard the tall man growl, but said tall man would deny it until his dying day.

The man in blue was blatantly flirting with Molly, as Sherlock deduced from his stance (yes, even from the back, he _is_ Sherlock Holmes, after all). He stalked toward them and inserted himself in the small space between his pathologist and the flirt.

‘Molly, I do hope I’m not interrupting,’ he pasted on a smile and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, tugging her close. He turned a dangerous glare at the man, as Molly jabbed her elbow into his side. The man in blue stammered an apology for taking up her time and fled. Sherlock released her, adopting his usual arrogant personae once more as he rubbed his now tender ribs.

‘You arse!’ She whispered harshly, aware that they were on a public beach. ‘He was cute!’

‘Don’t be daft, Molly, it’s beneath you,’ he moved aside and began setting out his towel. He jumped back in surprise when she slapped his upper arm. It hadn’t hurt really, but he rubbed the spot absentmindedly as he stared at her.

‘I’m not daft,’ she hissed. ‘And it’s not your place to scare men away!’

With a deadly glare, she turned her back on him, finishing laying out her towel. Sherlock spread out his own towel perfectly and immediately laid down on his back, turning his head to watch Molly struggle.

She huffed and finally let the towel spread out how it wanted. She pretended not to notice Sherlock’s unwavering attention, but her heated cheeks betrayed her.

With a flourish, she untied the string of her cover-up and grabbed the hem, sweeping it over her head. She folded it neatly and placed it in her bag before grabbing her sunglasses from the inner pocket and slipping them on. Straightening up, she adjusted her bikini straps and glanced over at Sherlock.

The moment the cover-up was dropped, Sherlock’s heart nearly stopped. He raised himself up on his elbow, his mouth falling open. Not only did Molly have a figure even the Woman would enjoy, but the bikini seemed to taunt Sherlock, hugging places he had previously scorned.

He continued to stare unabashedly, his mouth agape as she gracefully lowered herself to the ground and stretched her legs out, laying on her back, her lips twitching in amusement. But Sherlock was too busy trying to reconcile the Doctor Molly Hooper in his Mind Palace with the beauty two feet to his left.

Several moments passed and she began to squirm under his stare. She turned her head to the side and lowered her sunglasses onto the tip of her nose. With a coy smile, she quirked an eyebrow.

‘It’s impolite to stare, Mister Holmes,’ she purred. _Apparently confident, flirtatious Molly only needed a beach and a bikini to make herself known._

Sherlock swallowed thickly and, with one final disbelieving trail down her body, he removed his gaze and leaned back, mimicking her supine position.

‘I suppose you are intending to join me for the remainder of the day?’ Molly asked, shifting her face back toward the sky.

Sherlock shook himself out of his stupor and glanced at her from his peripheral.

‘If that is acceptable, yes. I promise to refrain from ‘whinging’,’ he wrinkled his nose at the word.

Molly giggled, a light sound that sent a flood of endorphins through Sherlock’s body, before sighing dramatically. ‘Then you may stay.’

He smiled triumphantly and leaned back, closing his eyes and entering his Mind Palace to find the new Molly and burn whatever clothes he had relegated to her room. Before he had even taken a step down the hallway, something hard landed on his chest and jerked him out of his thoughts.

He raised an eyebrow as he opened his eyes and saw a bottle of sunscreen laying on his stomach.

‘You’re as pale as a vampire. Put it on. I won’t take care of you if you burn.’ She said as she returned to her sunbathing position, a blush staining her cheeks. ‘Well, I probably would. I’d just rather you not get hurt.’

He grinned at her profile and uncapped the bottle. _Still the same Molly inside._

_Now to convince her to return to London._


	5. Sunset Sentiments

The hills rolled majestically out from the horizon, sloping and crossing, interspersed with trees and rocks, painted in gold by the setting Sun. Two moving dots bobbed in and out of sight, drawing closer to the edge of a particularly dense forest. The thud of hooves grew louder, accompanied by a lilting laugh and a deep chuckle. A man and woman on horseback slowed to a stop just shy of the woods and dismounted.

‘At last, there is something I am better at than you!’ The woman declared breathlessly.

The man forced a frown, ‘Logically, that was always likely. I am merely glad it was something as mundane as horseback racing.’

‘Oh, let me gloat a bit, Sherlock,’ the woman scolded with a laugh. ‘It’s not often I best the world’s only Consulting Detective.’

Sherlock simply nodded, his face not showing any of the unfamiliar feelings of delight at the sound of her laughter. He turned his head, walking past her to peer into the dense thicket before them.

‘Considering the hour, it would be unwise to enter the forest, Molly. Perhaps another time.’

Molly sighed and pulled out her phone to check the time, ‘I guess you’re right. But we’ve got some time before the horses are due back to the stables, let’s relax for a bit.’

‘Relax?’ Sherlock scrunched his face in distaste. ‘Have you not been relaxing for the past week?’

‘With you around, no,’ she retorted drily.

‘You spent an entire day laying on the beach-‘

‘You lasted a whole hour before reneging on your promise not to complain-‘

‘-and another day parading around ruins-‘

‘Did you really have to deduce the poor tour guide? Who cares if he used to be a woman?’

‘-then three days _sightseeing_ in Madrid-‘

‘There was a lot of ancient architecture! I wanted to see it all! I didn’t ask you to tag along.’

‘-and now an entire day getting a bruised bum by riding horses around aimlessly.’

‘Oi, admit it, you’re enjoying the horseback riding!’           

Sherlock sighed heavily and acquiesced. ‘Perhaps _today_ has not been a pointless endeavor. My files on horses and Spanish flora have been expanded significantly.’

‘There you go,’ Molly declared victoriously with a smirk, ‘always a silver lining!’ She proceeded to tie her horse’s reins to a nearby tree, Sherlock following her example. With a happy sigh, she turned to face the setting Sun. Another hour remained before dusk, but already red and purple stripes painted the sky, the golden light shimmering over the tops of the trees. For a moment, she considered taking a picture. But she’d rather not spoil the beauty of the moment in nature by poisoning it with technology.

‘Isn’t it just beautiful, Sherlock?’ She asked dreamily, spreading her arms wide and twirling about, her hair flowing around her.

Sherlock merely shook his head exasperatedly, even as his heart skipped a beat at her antics. ‘It is a simple scientific fact. The light from the Sun is dispersed by the-‘

‘Oh, shut up,’ she giggled and tugged on his arm. She pulled him close, tucking her arm through his, and together they gazed out at the rolling Spanish countryside. ‘Just… enjoy the view.’

Sherlock looked out at the sunset. There was nothing spectacular about it. It was a fact of nature. The Sun would always set. And depending on the temperature and the Earth’s distance from the Sun, as well as a plethora of other factors, there would be a range of colors reflected across the sky and clouds.

But Molly seemed to be utterly entranced by it. He looked down at her. Her eyes were wide with wonder and she smiled happily. The rays of sunshine, interspersed with golden flecks floating dazedly in the air, created an enchanting aura around her.

She looked absolutely lovely.

His heart skipped a beat.

Plain, simple, always-there Molly had thrown his entire perception of her off during this holiday. First by her sudden confidence, then by her stunning and unexpected figure, and now by her complete contentment in simply watching the Sun set.

He had always admired her intellect, which was far above that of most _goldfish_. And he’d known of her feelings toward him. Despite what people conjectured, Sherlock was indeed not gay. And despite what John assumed, Irene Adler was far from what Sherlock desired. He never considered he’d have a ‘type.’ But apparently, this holiday was quite successful in illuminating that mystery in his life. Because suddenly, his ‘type’ was brunette pathologists with brown eyes and a kind heart.

More specifically, his ‘type’ was Molly Hooper.

At that moment, the penny dropped.

His logical mind, so intent on eliminating and preventing potential weaknesses, had been breached by the greatest weakness of all. Sentiment. And not just any sentiment. _Love._

He loved her.

He, Sherlock Holmes, loved Molly Hooper.

The man who claimed to not have a heart had just discovered that he did. And this small, _usually_ timid pathologist beside him unknowingly held it in her hands.

_Oh, if there was a God, He’d surely be enjoying the irony of this._


	6. I Already Do

'Sherlock?'

Molly turned to look up at him, her brow furrowing in confusion. He couldn't tear his gaze from her face, the recent revelation of his feelings temporarily paralyzing his senses.

'Are you okay?'

He blinked and his eyes flicked down to her lips. They seemed to call to him, much like the voice of a siren, pulling him into unknown waters.

Her eyes widened as he leaned down, her chest rising and falling with her quickening breaths. When the first brush of her breath caressed his face, Sherlock lost all sense of restraint. He pressed his lips to hers, closing his eyes at the feeling. She squeaked in surprise and started to pull away. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around her, holding her firmly, preventing her from breaking the kiss.

He lost himself in the euphoria, the chemicals in his mind releasing a symphony of an unknown melody, his heart pounded and his entire being was flooded with a high he'd never managed to achieve with the purest heroin.

Against his lips, Molly began mumbling, her hands reaching up and pressing against his chest. Sherlock growled and began nibbling on her bottom lip, swiping his tongue across it.

Molly shivered in response.

A jolt of pure, animalistic pride shot straight to his heart at her body's delighted reaction.

Molly began to struggle in earnest, effectively rubbing her body against his, nullifying any logic Sherlock may have maintained.

'Let  _go,_ ' she managed to gasp, turning her head away, effectively ending the kiss. Her arms trembled as she tried to disentangle herself from him. 'Let me go.'

Still feeling the effects of the newly discovered chemical flood, it took a moment for Sherlock to realize she was trying to get away. He slowly loosened his arms, but did not let her leave his embrace. His brow furrowed in hurt and confusion.

'You do not seem happy?'

She wrenched herself free and stepped back. Tears pooled in her eyes and her lip trembled tellingly. His heart clenched at the pain on her face.

'Of course, I'm not happy, you bloody wanker,' she gasped, a tear escaping. Sherlock blinked in surprise at her language.

He stepped forward and reached a hand out to touch her, but she flinched away. 'You love me. Is this not what you want?'

Molly huffed a laugh, her tears flowing freely, 'No. No, it's not. I don't want you,' she waved a shaking hand between them, 'like this. Using me just to get me back to London. It's… I just don't… it would break me, Sherlock. To love someone, be given a taste of them, but knowing they'd never love me back? I'm not s-strong enough for that.'

Sherlock swallowed thickly. Had he really convinced her he was unable to return her affections? That he wasn't just trying to manipulate her into returning to London?

_Jesus Christ, Sherlock, all you've ever done is convince her that you're a heartless bastard using her for his own ends._

Unwelcome though it was, the voice of John in his Mind Palace brought him up short. A quick perusal of his interactions with Molly only served to further convict him.

His arms limp at his sides, he bowed his head slightly, 'I… am sorry for my insensitivity.'

'I know you are. You always are,' Molly took a trembling breath, 'I'm just not sure it's enough anymore. You can't keep pulling me in then pushing me away like a bloody yo-yo!'

'Please let me explain.'

Molly shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides in anger, 'I came here to get away from you. To find out who I am when I'm not around you, not defined by my feelings for you. But you followed me! I just wanted a chance to get a fresh perspective on my life. I tried with Tom while you were destroying Moriarty's network, but my thoughts were always consumed by you; where you were, if you were hurt or if you were even still alive. Just… please, Sherlock,' she sighed in defeat, 'let me move on.'

Sherlock growled, the newly discovered feeling of jealously rising up with a vengeance, overwhelming his shame as she spoke. He stalked over to her, thunder on his face. She backed up in surprise, nearly tripping over the rocky ground. Her back hit a tree and she cowered under his gaze, the mouse inside her trembling in fright.

He leaned against her, bracing his hand on the tree, above her head.

'Move on?' he growled. 'Find someone boring to love who loves you back? Have children with him and grow old with him, wrinkled and complacent? Will that make you happy? A life without excitement, a life without me?'

Molly clenched her jaw, her surprise fading into anger. But Sherlock didn't give her a chance to interject.

'You'll never be truly happy with someone else, because you've created this idea of the perfect man in your mind, and the only one who fits the mold is me,' he thumped his free hand against his chest.

'But you're afraid. Afraid to be happy when everything you've wanted is handed to you. Just in case it's not real. Well, here's the honest truth, Margaret Hooper. You can have me and be completely happy or you can 'move on' and be somewhat less than content with a piss-poor carbon copy of yours truly because your pitiful little mind can't overcome its doubts, all the while knowing you'll never be able to love anyone like you love me.'

Breathing heavily, he towered over her, fire in his eyes. He watched her face as every word fell heavy on her heart. But his mind began spitting out words, completely bypassing the logic filter. Horrified, he heard himself spouting as Molly's face becoming more and more furious.

As the last, awful word faded into the silence, she schooled her pained features into a trembling mask of strength.

'That's low, even for you,' she growled angrily. She poked his chest, her eyes flashing bright with fury. 'I may never love someone as deeply as I love you. But I would rather love someone a little less and have them love me in return than spend the rest of my life catering to your every desire in the hopeless fantasy that you will love me back.'

Before she could duck under his arm, he pulled her close, threading the fingers of his free hand through hers. She flinched at his touch and tried to pull her hand from his grasp, to no avail. His thumb brushed gently over her knuckles as he took a deep breath, 'Oh, Molly. I already do.'

Molly froze.

Her hand stilled, no longer trying to escape his grip. Her anger began to fade as his words sunk in and her lips parted in surprise.

Several moments passed in stunned silence. The wind seemed to hush as the silence descended between them. Sherlock could feel his heart beating against his ribs, blood rushing in his ears. He waited with bated breath, never moving his gaze from hers.

Finally, she blinked and whispered, 'Sorry. Wh-what?'

'You heard me,' his eyes softened with vulnerability, but his face remained impassive. 'I already do.'

She swallowed thickly, her head tilted back to stare up at him in shock.

'Do what?' she whispered, unbelieving.

One arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand cupping her cheek. He leaned down slowly, his breath fanning her face, sending tingles across her body. His galactic eyes stared hard into her wide, brown eyes, no mask or deception writ on his face. Her heart thudded almost painfully as she read the undeniable truth in his vulnerable gaze. His lips almost touching hers, he whispered, 'I already do love you.'

'Oh,' she breathed just as his mouth pressed against hers. She closed her eyes, letting him wrap her in his strong embrace. She slid her arms around his shoulders, burrowing her hands in his curls.

He groaned at the sensation and instinctively tightened his hold on her. She gasped in surprise, moaning as he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

They broke apart several intense moments later, breathless, resting their foreheads together. Molly sighed, 'If you knew how many times I've dreamed about this moment…'

Sherlock chuckled and moved to rest his chin atop her head. '339 times. In my presence, at least.'

Gasping, Molly smacked his shoulder. 'And how would you know exactly what I was thinking? Perhaps I've been daydreaming about killing you.'

'Mmm, nope,' he popped the 'p' as he smirked, 'You bite your lip and blush when your thoughts drift toward me in an intimate capacity. When you are angry or frustrated, you  _flush_ and your lips thin, as though you are holding back harsh words.'

Molly rolled her eyes in fondness even as her cheeks reddened. 'Show-off.'

Sherlock pulled back and looked down at her, a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. He glanced around and noticed the encroaching night was falling quickly. 'It's getting dark. Shall we return the horses and retire to the hotel?'

She nodded and they reluctantly moved away, untying and mounting their horses.

As she turned her horse back to where they had come from, Molly turned to Sherlock and smiled, 'I suppose I should say that I love you, too.'

A swell of pride rose in his chest as he trotted up to her and leaned across the gap between their steeds. 'It is nice to hear it when you're not yelling at me,' he pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. She hummed happily, still trying to solidify this new reality in her mind. There was a small fear that this wasn't real and she was simply having a very vivid daydream. But the muscles in her back and legs, as well as her sore bum, were evidence enough that she was not dreaming.

She giggled as they began their trek, an idea popping into her mind, 'You know, if this were a romantic movie, you'd insist on sharing a saddle with me, unable to bear being parted from me by even the distance between our horses.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, 'If this were a romantic movie, sappy music would be playing over our dialogue, which would be impeccably irrelevant and impossibly improbable.'

'Nevertheless,' she pretended to pout before giving in to laughter. 'Well, I suppose you're more of the dashing, yet distant hero than the boy next door.'

'I resent that you would even consider me the 'boy next door' for even a moment,' he wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Molly's laughter lightened his heart and he found himself smiling as they continued their journey in contented silence.

Well, for the most part.

* * *

'Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

'If you're just doing this to get me to leave Spain, I'll send you back to London in a body bag.'

'Actually, I was intending to convince you to extend your holiday. Indefinitely, if I can.'

'And how, Mister Holmes, did you plan on convincing me?'

'Vigorously, Doctor Hooper. Very vigorously.'


	7. The Wrath of John

John Watson paced the length of 221B Baker Street for over an hour, oscillating between anger at his former flatmate for disappearing and worry about his safety. It had been almost three weeks since he had heard from the detective and, even for Sherlock that was a long time to be radio silent. Mycroft was unreachable in the west, probably negotiating with some of the… more unfriendly countries. Mrs. Hudson was the last to have seen Sherlock and he had been dashing out the door with a briefcase and shouting about musicals. John couldn't get much more out of her, she kept gushing on about babies, biscuits, and her latest beau.

His wife watched him pace from her place on the couch, their daughter nuzzled against her chest, fast asleep.

'John,' she sighed. 'I'm sure he's fine. It's not the first time he's disappeared for a case.'

'He'd better be,' John growled. 'But to not even send a text?'

Mary rolled her eyes and shifted Billie a little higher. John felt the corners of his mouth tug at the sight and his heart swelled, momentarily forgetting his aggravation with the consulting detective.

'Did you call Molly?' Mary asked.

John nodded his head, 'No answer. Mike Stamford said she was called to Spain for a conference and is staying there for a holiday.'

Mary's eyebrow rose, 'Oh, really?'

'She's entitled to it, dealing with that…' he faltered as Mary frowned and his eyes flicked to his daughter. '…dealing with  _Sherlock's_  demands for hours on end.'

Mary's eyes narrowed in thought. Something must have clicked in the former assassin's mind, because she suddenly started grinning widely.

Before John could question her, the door below slammed open and a familiar bellow echoed up the stairs.

'For God's sake, woman, I said I was sorry!'

Two sets of angry footsteps pounded up the stairs. Mary rose, cradling a still drowsing Billie close, and they watched as Molly Hooper stormed into the kitchen, tanned and furious.

An indignant, but sheepish and equally tanned Sherlock was hot on her heels. Neither acknowledged the Watsons in the main room.

John and Mary watched in shocked amusement as the usually timid Molly whirled about, hands on her hips and stared Sherlock down, despite being more than a foot shorter.

'William. Sherlock. Scott. Holmes.' Sherlock's eyes widened, as did John's and Mary's, at Molly's forceful tone and use of his full name. 'If you think for one, bloody second, that a blanket apology, which I  _know_ you don't mean, will make this go away, you are very much mistaken. And furthermore,' Sherlock winced, 'your  _mother_ would be furious to learn exactly what happened, so unless you dig deep into that recently melted heart of yours and figure out exactly what was so astoundingly wrong with what you did, I will get out my mobile and, so help me, Sherlock Holmes, I will tattle on you!'

The stark fear on Sherlock's face was something John would never forget. He desperately wished for a camera so he could treasure that look for the rest of his days.

'Molly,' Sherlock growled. Molly stood resolute, her back straight. John's eyebrows, if possible, rose even higher at how adamant Molly was being, not at all the mousy and shy pathologist he knew.

'Wait,' Sherlock frowned in thought, before triumphantly clapping his hands together, 'You're bluffing. You are not in possession of my mother's number, nor have you even met her. Your threat holds no water, Molly Hooper.'

Molly scowled, but did not back down.

Back and forth. It was like a tennis match, John thought, or a train wreck. And it looked as though Sherlock would be the victor of this… whatever this was. And John felt disappointed that once again Sherlock had hurt Molly, in some way, and refused to fix it. He made to step forward and intervene, but Mary's free hand stayed him. With a quiet motion, she gestured for him to remain silent.

Sherlock smirked down at the pathologist and waited for her to admit defeat. Instead of cowing under his gaze, as John fully expected, Molly stared back at Sherlock and reached into her pocket. Pulling out her mobile, she flicked her fingers across the screen and then raised it to her ear.

John was surprised at how determined Molly was to go through with her bluff. There was no change in Sherlock's demeanor, though he had now crossed his arms in confidence that she would eventually crumble.

A triumphant gleam sparkled in Molly's eye as the call connected and she smiled sweetly, 'Hello, Violet… I'm well, how are you?'

Sherlock frowned slightly, as did John.

_Is she actually talking to Mummy Holmes?_ In his peripheral, John could see Mary grinning like the Cheshire cat, her eyes sparkling with pride.

'That's wonderful! Listen, there is something I could use your advice on… It's… Well, perhaps Sherlock could explain it better,' Molly silently held her mobile out. Sherlock ripped it from her hand, still confident she was bluffing.

He rolled his eyes, playing along with Molly's bluff and drolled sarcastically, 'Hello, Mummy  _dearest_.'

Suddenly, he stood at attention, his back ram-rod straight. Gulping so loudly, Mary and John could hear it in the next room, he stammered, 'I-I'm sorry, Mummy…. No, I wasn't intending to be disrespectful…. H-how do you and Molly… Since when...?'

A gobsmacked John watched as Sherlock turned into a mumbling mess and Molly stood triumphant.

'Of course, Mummy. No, there's nothing wrong… I'll explain later...' Sherlock glared reproachfully at the smug Molly in front of him. 'I promise…Bye, Mummy.'

Molly held out her hand, still beaming widely, and Sherlock slapped the phone into her palm.

'How did you get her number? How do you even know her?' He growled.

Molly shrugged nonchalantly, 'Mycroft.'

'Mycroft?!' Sherlock sputtered. 'Since when are you so friendly with that fatty?'

She glared at him in silent reproach. 'While you were gone, he asked me to accompany them to Les Mis in his stead.' She shrugged her shoulders, 'I happen to like the play, anyway. Violet and I exchanged numbers. We talk sometimes, usually about my research or her discoveries. Or whenever you're being an arse. So you could say we talk often.'

Sherlock seemed at a loss for words, something that brought a nice, smug feeling to John's heart.

'Now,' Molly tilted her chin up and crossed her arms, 'I'm waiting for that apology. That  _sincere_  apology.'

Jaw clenched, Sherlock grumbled incoherently.

'What was that?' Molly leaned forward expectantly, a smile tugging on her lips.

With a huff, Sherlock blurted out, 'I'm sorry, truly, for trying to get you to shag me in the plane's lavatory. And for trying to  _cop a feel_  to appease you when you grew angry.'

Unable to remain silent any longer, John and Mary simultaneously gasped in disbelieving surprise.

Sherlock and Molly jumped at the sound, turning to face their previously unseen audience. Both turned bright red as they realized the Watson's had been watching all along. John's mouth gaped open as Mary began to laugh.

Billie, now awake, grinned widely as she saw her godfather, her chubby arms reaching for him. Sherlock stepped into the room and swept the baby from her mother's arms. Holding her hostage, he glowered at the couple.

'Do control yourselves,' he snapped, a smile plastered on his face as he bounced Billie up and down. In the kitchen, Molly struggled to compose herself, anger and embarrassment flushing her face red, before following Sherlock into the main room.

'So,' John waved a hand between Molly and Sherlock, 'the two of you are… uh… yeah?'

'Obviously, John. Do keep up.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. Billie gurgled happily at the action and clapped her hands against his cheeks.

'And these past three weeks, you've been…?'

'With Molly, in Spain.'

'And when were you going to tell us you were… involved?' John asked, his shock fading into anger. There was no case, no danger, and no word from the inconsiderate arse.

'Well, considering we only became involved two weeks ago, I'd say as soon as we came home. And here we are.' Sherlock smiled briefly, (creepily, in John's opinion), bouncing Billie faster as he became more agitated with the line of questioning.

Mary stepped forward, having quieted her laughter, and reclaimed her daughter with a frown at Sherlock. 'And you couldn't text John back that you were safe? He was worried, especially after the last time you went off grid.' Her not-so-subtle implication sent a flash of regret across the detective's face. Coming up behind him, Molly laced her fingers through his in a silent show of support.

Sherlock sighed, 'I did not intend to worry you. It was quite a last minute holiday. And we were quite busy,' he flashed a hungry, smoldering glance at Molly who, if possible, blushed a deeper crimson. He tugged her to his side, his hand disappearing behind her. Molly jumped and gave a slight squeak, biting her lip to keep from smiling.

'Oh, bloody hell,' John groaned as he realized what was on their minds. He turned and grabbed his jacket from where it lay across the sofa, and quickly led Mary and Billie from the flat. 'When your libidos are sated, text me. I owe you a punch in the nose, you wanker.'

'Bye. Sorry!' Molly called as the Watsons hastened from the flat, Sherlock immediately pouncing on her as soon as they were out the door.

'Call me, Molly!' Mary called up the stairs, 'We'll get drinks!'

A muffled thud and multiple groans were her answer.

John shuddered at the thought of what was about to happen in his former flat and eagerly rushed his family onto the street. With Billie safely ensconced in her seat, he tossed the keys to Mary. With one hand on the car, he froze. Mary looked at him over the car in question.

He cleared his throat and pointed a firm finger at her, 'We are never double dating with them. Is that understood?'

Mary giggled and slid into the car, 'Yes, sir.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear readers, for your support! I may return to this story and revamp it, but for now, I shall leave it be. I do so hope you have enjoyed it!


End file.
